


All That Glitters

by MangoMartini



Series: Incaensor [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Childhood Memories, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:30:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MangoMartini/pseuds/MangoMartini
Summary: Dorian is five when he casts his first spell, eleven when he throws his first punch, and eighteen when he first meets Gereon Alexius. Or: The story of Dorian before the Inquisition





	1. The First Spark

Dorian Pavus first performs magic when he is five years old. 

It happens in the solarium, in one of the late weeks of Molioris. Dorian sits in the middle of the solarium, surrounded by toys like courtiers. And even though there’s a faint breeze ruffling the curtains, one tinged with a hint of salt from the Ventosus Straits, there’s still sweat under his ears and behind his knees. 

“No, not like that. No, you’re not listening to me!”

He’s been trying to explain out an elaborate game with blocks and toy soldiers to a daughter of a servant--but the elf won’t pay attention, wouldn’t play along. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t want to be there, or that Dorian keeps changing the rules. He is five years old, and even if he wasn’t, no one would have stopped him from stomping his feet, curling his pudgy fingers into fists, and screaming so loud that the drapes catch on fire. 

The smoldering ashes of the silk curtains glitter in the sunlight as they drift down to the marble floor, and Dorian stares at them, mouth open, as the servant girl begins to wail. It’s her cries that attract her mother, Dorian’s nurse, from the other room, and it’s only the frantic shouting of the nurse that had finally attracts the attention of his parents. 

They rush right past the crying girl and her irate mother to scoop Dorian up in their arms. The room reeks of fire and  burning and  _ magic _ ; it’s clear what he’s done. They say so themselves, in high voices and small words. His mother smothers his face with kisses and his father even ruffles his hair, repeating over and over that the Pavus line is known for showing magical talent early on. 

“You’ve made me so proud, my boy,” Dorian’s father says, raising his voice to be heard over the girl’s persistent cries. 

“My little Magister,” his mother coos, touching the tip of his nose with the tip of her finger in a way that makes Dorian’s whole face light up. “We must plan a party,” his mother says to his father, setting Dorian down on the marble after a moment more. “Madame Florenina is having a party next week, some sort of moon viewing, I think. Let’s show her up.”

When the party arrives, his parents spend the entire night drinking punch with guests in the garden, marveling over the shapes of the topiaries and the delicate canapes. Dorian himself is left alone under the orchid tree, and spends the evening charming little flames between hands, watching them wink in and out of existence in the moonlight. 

Neither the servant girl nor her mother are ever seen again, and Dorian never questions it. 

#

Dorian is seven years old when he is first dropped off at the Carastes Circle, far enough from home to make him someone else’s problem, yet close enough to where he could still visit for holidays. But Dorian is still young, so young, and won’t understand  _ tradition  _ and why he can’t just  _ stay home  _ for years to come. 

So he kicks and screams as they approach the Circle, until his father smacks him and his mother hisses that he’s embarrassing them. It’s enough to muffle his protests as he’s shown to his new room, introduced to his new roommates, and assured that he will be receiving a magical education as befitting his Altus rank. 

And he does. Dorian learns how to control the flames, the ice, the sparks that fly eagerly from his fingers, and even more eagerly from his training staff. He learns how to make the warm, protective bubbles that are the same color as his mother’s favorite absinthe, and how to dispell the magic of others. 

He learns he has power. 

His lives at the Carastes Circle for three years, coming home only for the winter festival season, where he is passed around like a party favor between his parents’ friends.  _ Show me what you’ve learned, Dorian _ , is the common request. And Dorian does, can’t resist an audience even now, and spends the season learning how to bow, how to smile, how to look up through his eyelashes at older women and purse his lips so that they call him a  _ heartbreaker _ , whatever that is. At the end of each night of the festival season, his father would scoop him up and deposit him back in bed himself, tuck him in, and leaving a small, enchanted light to glow at the foot of his bed.

#

Dorian is ten when he draws his first blood. 

There is another student of the Circle, Appius, who is eleven, smells of rotten pears, and won’t leave Dorian alone. For reasons Dorian can’t understand, Appius takes issue with the way Dorian speaks, the way Dorian’s hips move when he walks, the flourishes Dorian adds when he casts his favorite spells. 

And when the situation boils over like an unattended cauldron, it’s not the epic duel his parents will later tell the rest of Minrathous high society--there aren’t any advanced spells, no last-minute barriers, not even any witty banter. Instead, Appius calls Dorian a name to his face, sneering with his thin lips and spitting on the ground at Dorian’s feet. 

“Am not,” Dorian protests. He can feel his magic swelling, the faint hint of flames ready to do his bidding--what his mother once called his  _ temper _ .

“Are too,” Appius, who is only eleven, argues back.

Then, in the beginning of a grand tradition, Dorian acts before he thinks. Not with a spell, not even with his light training staff, but with his fists. He hits Appius with all the strength in his body, splitting the mage’s lip against his teeth. Appius crumples to the floor with a pathetic cry, and Dorian spends the rest of his time at the Carastes Circle in the First Enchanter’s study, until his mother comes to drag him out by his ear. 

It takes a week to place Dorian in another Circle, and he spends the time reviewing his exercises, climbing the garden trees and casting barriers on the ground so he can jump out of them unharmed, and sneaking as many sugar biscuits as he can before the cook screeches at him in unintelligible Elvish. It is a dream within a nightmare, the part of falling between the initial jump and the landing--the part almost mistaken for flying. 

#

By the time Dorian is fourteen, he’s been expelled from two more Circles. 

He fights his way out of the Asariel Circle, taking another mage up on his idea of a clandestine duel. He’s twelve, with elfroot under his nails and his dark fringe flopping in front of his eyes, and he casts a spell that the other mage can’t block in time--of course he couldn’t, Dorian would later say; the boy was just a Laetan, no way he could have stood up to an Altus--and the resulting frostbite causes the Laetan boy to lose an arm. 

His parents say they’re taking him out of this Circle, that he shouldn’t have ever been sent to a Circle with so many Laetans and Praeteri, but Dorian sees the fear in the other children’s eyes as he packs his trunk and descends the Circle's grand staircase for the last time, one hand clutching at his mother’s robes as if he’s half his age. 

It’s all politics in the Trevis Circle. There is an Enchanter with a long neck and crooked teeth who, for reasons beyond Dorian’s fourteen-year-old ken, has issues with his father. Nothing new, but the man takes it out on Dorian with overbearing work loads, sporadic punishments, and near-constant verbal attacks. Dorian cuts class, preferring the sanctity of Circle’s aromatic fruit trees to do his reading, and when his poor marks put him danger of expulsion from the Circle, he writes to his father. 

A week later it’s not his father who appears, but  _ Magister Pavus _ , in full regalia and with a convoy of other Altus and even more servants. Dorian watches as they sweep into the Circle en masse, robes billowing, and Dorian watches his father rage and storm as if demon-possessed. Every other phrase out of the magister’s mouth is  _ my son _ , and Dorian has never felt more loved than when he watched his father threaten to have the offending Enchanter kicked out of the Magisterium. He follows his father out, things preemptively packed, and spends the journey home showing off every new trick he’s learned just to see his father smile at him. 


	2. The Nine-Day Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's time in the Qarinus Circle, and of the young mage he met there.

The Qarinus Circle is Dorian’s last, and his favorite. The air always smells like sea salt, and the waves are always full of ships going back and forth from Seheron. It’s  _ home _ . He barely understands what happens on Seheron, not in any concrete way, but he can understand the way in which the red sails of the Imperium’s navy billow in the wind, and the regal carvings on the ships’ bows in the shapes of the Old Gods. 

He’s fourteen when he meets Claudius, a late bloomer from a lesser-known Altus family in Qarinus who has also just joined the Circle. It’s not Claudius’ sea-green eyes that do Dorian in, nor his bronze skin or spun-gold hair--nothing so banal. It’s the way those eyes go wide the first time he sees Dorian cast a spell, the way they light up brighter than any enchantment, and the way his voice shakes when he says, with nothing but sincerity, “That’s the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen.”

And Dorian, who has been passed around as a party favor by his parents since before he could walk, drinks in the praise like a drowning man gasps for air once he’s final broken the surface of the waves. He cocks his hip, flips his fringe out of his eyes, and says, “Well, I am rather impressive,” before he offers his hand to the other mage. “Dorian Pavus.” There’s no need for the rest of the title; even here in Qarinus his family name carries weight. 

“Claudius Bellus.”

They shake hands, and it feels like lightning. It’s a handshake that makes Dorian too-aware of his angular elbows, the way his ears don’t quit fit his face, and the fact that he’s built up a sweat in the midday sun. 

But if Claudius notices, he doesn’t say anything. Claudius, with his sparking skin and broad shoulders, just keeps smiling and asks if Dorian will show him how to cast that spell sometime. 

“No guarantee you’ll look as good as me doing it,” Dorian brags, his flippant tone a balm of his fraying nerves, “but I’ll give it my best shot.”

They’re inseparable after that.    


Dorian and Claudius eat together, study together, sneak out into the gardens late at night together only to look up at the stars and simply  _ be _ . Dorian has other friends, multiple instructors, tutors even, all while he is at the Qarinus Circle. But when he remembers back to his time here years later, all he will remember is Claudius and a time before the word  _ alliance  _ replaces the word  _ friendship _ . 

#

“And you’re sure it’s down here?” Claudius asks, though he shows no sign of turning back. 

Dorian throws his head back and laughs. “Of course I’m sure. Why?” he asks suddenly, turning back to look at Claudius. “Do you doubt me?”

It’s fall in Qarinus. Dorian is sixteen, and has finally grown into his ears. His hair is cut short, as is the current trend in Minrathous, and there’s a dusting of dark stubble on his jaw. Claudius is the same as ever, at least in Dorian’s mind, the same golden idol he had met years before in the summer sun. 

Claudius has a wool coat over his robes, and a rough bag slung over his shoulder. “I don’t know, Dorian,” he replies, rolling the  _ r  _ in Dorian’s name in a way that makes Dorian lick his teeth.  “The last time I followed you to gather herbs, we had to fight off a horde of giant spiders.”

They’re on the rocky shore of Qarinus, out of sight of the walled city. The waves are dark and choppy, and there are no ships out the Ventosus Straits today. The sun itself is barely out, tucked away behind a blanket of clouds so that the whole world feels like twilight, like the way all his textbooks describe the Fade. 

“It was two spiders,” Dorian counters. They were quite massive, but he doesn’t concede that point. Dorian pauses at the edge of the water, letting the waves lap at his boots. “Don’t be dramatic.” He smirks at Claudius, who comes closer. “That’s my job.”

Somewhere between the sound of the waves and the smell of salt on the air, Claudius puts his hand on Dorian’s hip. There’s something in the touch, something that tastes like danger in the back of Dorian’s throat, like the bitter tang of Lyrium. Doran looks down at the hand as if he can’t quite come to terms with what it is, with what it’s doing there. 

He’s heard stories, of course. Circles are, in many ways, nothing but a swirling stew of hormones and awkward experimentation, from the girls with contraband books hidden under their mattresses to the fumbling touches of two young mages in an abandoned classroom--there’s one on the second floor of the Qarinus Circle that’s quite popular. And it’s not that Dorian hasn’t  _ wanted _ , or hasn’t wanted  _ Claudius _ . 

But that is just it. He wants Claudius, all of him, his attention and his smiles and the way he chews his quill pens even though they’re imported from Nevarra. He wants the way Claudius rolls his eyes and the way he indulges Dorian in every whim, like sneaking down to the shore to gather Spindleweed. 

“Is it, now?” Claudius asks, as if he wasn’t touching Dorian at all. 

He’s too close, Dorian knows. Claudius is too close to him and so he laughs, but it comes out strangled and nervous. “Of course,” he replies, his wit failing him. “You know that.”

Claudius sways closer. If Dorian wanted, he could have rested his forehead against Claudius’. Or he could, if could remember how to move. He stays perfectly still, half-wondering if he’s actually on the beach at all or in the Fade, being tempted by a desire demon. But he never attracted demons this powerful, this real, and there was no way the pain in his chest could be a deception from the Fade. 

“Do I?” Claudius asks, voice low. 

Dorian laughs again, but it’s more of a squeak than anything else. “You’re certainly full of questions today,” he says, and it’s a struggle to get the words out. His tongue doesn’t want to cooperate, and his eyes keep threatening to close. The spot on his hip feels like it’s on fire, and Dorian can’t help but wonder what that fire would feel like touching his face, his chest, his cock. 

Suddenly, their noses are touching. “And you’re evading,” Claudius accuses, but there’s no heat behind it. “A question requires an answer, Dorian,” he adds, teasing out the name in a way that makes Dorian shudder. He can feel Claudius saying his name on his lips, the breath of it, like a chant.    


It’s nothing like the stories Dorian has heard in the Circle dorms. This is something so much more than that, it has to be, because Dorian feels drunk off it. Better than drunk, even, because unlike when he snuck his parents’ brandy last time he was home, he doesn’t feel like puking in the gardenias. 

For the briefest moment, Dorian remembers the incident seven years ago, when he punched Appius in the face.  _ These are connected _ , Dorian realizes, but he can’t quite place  _ why  _ as he leans in closer and presses his lips inexpertly against Claudius’ lips. He can  _ feel  _ Claudius smile and it only excites him more, so he grabs the front of Claudius’ coat and presses harder, moving his lips in the way he hopes people kiss, doing whatever he can to get that look off Claudius’ face. 

The smile fades away, Dorian feels, and he expected that. What he doesn’t expect is the way Claudius reacts, the way he pounces like a wolf, grasping at the short strands of Dorian’s hair with his free hand and pulling him close until their bodies are flush, body undulating against Dorian’s in a way that has him so hard he would have been embarrassed if he was capable of being anything but aroused. 

When they finally pull apart they are panting, and Claudius still has his hands on Dorian. Dorian has reached out and grasped Claudius’ forearms, but the hold is awkward, as though Dorian isn’t sure he’s even allowed to touch. He catches his breath and thinks of everything he wants, everything he doesn’t know how to ask for, and instead asks, “Is that enough of an answer for you?”

#

The romance lasts for nine days. 

Nine glorious days where Dorian feels as though he could cast any spell, survive any attack, even dive from the tallest cliffs Qarinus has to offer, into its choppiest seas, and come out in one piece, smiling and splashing. He feels invincible, has to stop himself from skipping to class, from humming too loudly, from adding saccharin doodles in the corner of his notes. Anything feels possible. 

He kisses Claudius twice more, both stolen moments between classes in places that have been checked and double-checked for secrecy. The kisses always start slow, cautious, but inevitably build to a roaring fury stopped too-soon by the need to be somewhere, anywhere else, lest they be caught. And at night, alone in his room, Dorian strokes himself off to the feeling of another pair of lips on his own, of finally knowing what it is like to be held, to be  _ wanted _ , to find belonging in heartbeat other than your own. 

And then, on the tenth day, Dorian doesn’t find Claudius at breakfast. He’s not in lessons, either, or lunch or studying in his nook in the library or even in the infirmary. When Dorian finally gets the courage to check, eyes stinging and throat tight, he finds Claudius’ room empty of everything, even dust. The sight of the room makes Dorian crumple down to his knees, one hand on the door frame and the other on the floor. His magic sparks at the tips of his fingers, begging to be used, but even Dorian can’t think of a spell that would let him go back and reverse what has happened. 

Instead, he feigns an illness which turns into throwing a tantrum, until the enchanters of the Circle deign to leave him alone. He spends the time in his room, wallowing. Slaves bring his food, leaving it at the door, and Dorian alternates between sleeping, screaming into his pillow, and breaking the window of his room only to magically fix the glass and break it again. That, at least, he could control. 

When Dorian, primped and smiling and clean-shaven, finally leaves his room, the details find him like a serpent in the grass. Claudius is a  _ deviant _ , some students whisper, one of  _ those _ . His parents took him away, others say, to another, smaller Circle. One rumor tries to convince others that Claudius’ parents shipped him off to a Circle in the  _ south _ , where the barbarians live in Ferelden, but he doesn’t, doesn’t  _ want  _ to, believe it. 

But it doesn’t change the fact that Dorian never sees Claudius again. 


	3. The Harrowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian endures his Harrowing to become a full-fledged mage. Also, a warning for mentions of suicide in this chapter.

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Dorian drawls, sauntering towards the man on the bed. 

The room itself is full of splendor, all pink-white marble and white curtains billowing out on a soft breeze. The frame of the bed seems to be made from solid gold, and the sheets are such a pure white that it almost hurts to look at them. 

“You dressed up for the occasion, darling,” the man replies. 

Dorian shrugs off the endearment, focusing on the compliment instead. He rolls his shoulders back, smiling. “I thought I had better,” he says, touching the intricate braid on his head to make sure it’s still in place. They’re all the rage in Minrathous now, Dorian learned when he was home last, long hair done in intricate shapes--his mother’s servants can put her hair in one resembling a swan with its wings spread. “You know I would never miss an occasion to look dashing. Though you look quite dashing yourself, I must say.”

Nothing in the room could match the beauty of this man. He was naked to the waist down, all dark smooth skin and broad shoulders and, of course, horns. There was no way this man could be an amalgamation of every one of Dorian’s desires without the horns of a Qunari. It makes Dorian lick his lips, thinking that one of the last things he will get to touch might be those horns. 

It is the night before Dorian’s eighteenth birthday, and the middle of his Harrowing. Like blood magic, the Harrowing is the worst-kept secret in Tevinter--you can’t keep that many chatty mages in one place without rumors, not in a society that thrives on gossip, intrigue, and information. And while even Dorian couldn’t, before this moment, sort out the gossip from the truth, he knew two things before he began his Harrowing: it involved the Fade and, if you failed, you died. 

The proctors did, of course, explain the rules to him as he took his ceremonial Lyrium: enter the fade, face whatever you find, and come back again.  _ The Templar is only here _ , they added, as Dorian drifted into another reality, _ in case something goes  _ wrong. 

And it’s a beautiful plan, really. Dorian has been fixated on it for weeks. So many mages pass their Harrowing, but so many of them  _ don’t _ , and it’s not the most shameful way to go. It’s certainly less shameful, say, than tossing oneself from the top of the highest Circle tower, or poison, or a dagger in one’s own heart--all Dorian’s previous ideas.  _ This  _ could so easily be an accident, even to the biggest gossip-monger in Minrathous. And so, barely eighteen years old, Dorian Pavus came to his Harrowing ready to die, by whatever means necessary.  

“Why don’t you come closer, little one?” the desire demon asks, spreading his legs wide and gesturing softly to Dorian. His voice is ethereal, somehow both soft and deep, echoing and yet singular, amplified by the Fade. 

Dorian knows it’s fake, a ploy, a scheme to possess his body that will get him killed by the Templar guarding his body. But  _ fasta vass _ if this desire demon doesn’t live up to every story Dorian has ever heard. The demon even  _ smells _ good, like sweat and leather and an undercurrent of something spicy.  It makes Dorian want to lick him, just to see what that smell would taste like. 

He wonders, as he moves closer to the demon, how much of this he will get before the Templar slits his throat. A kiss? A caress? Or would he only have to agree to be possessed by this demon? That wouldn’t be a fun way to go at all, not when Dorian wants so much more than that. 

“You’re having second thoughts, mage,” the demon accuses. He quirks up an eyebrow. “Does this form not please you?”

Dorian actually laughs at that, a full, throaty laugh, head tilting back so far that he fears for his braids. “Oh no, no, no, no, no,” Dorian chuckles out in quick succession. “On the contrary, I like this form very much.”

He means to say more, but the demon is faster. “You know where you are, what I am,” the demon states, “and yet you do not fight. Allow me to see if I may better tempt you.”

Without warning, the scene swirls and changes. They are no longer in a decadent bedroom, but in the Minrathous Chantry. The building is illuminated in reds, blues, and greens, all thrown from the intricate stained glass windows. the aisles have been decorated with every flower Dorian knows, and the seats are full of people in finery--people who are smiling, and some who are crying. 

_ This is a wedding _ , Dorian realizes. He’s been to enough of them now, seen enough of his friends paired up and married off, each in a ceremony vying to be as grand as the one before it. But at least it had always meant an open bar.

“Not just any wedding,” the demon says, followed by, “ _Amatus_.”

The Fade seems to spin around him, and Dorian regains his composure just long enough to feel his stomach churn. The air smells like jasmine, and he can hear the faint tinkle of bells that precedes the traditional wedding song of the Imperium. His clothes have transformed too, it seems, and now Dorian wears a suit of white silk and rich, gold velvet, perfectly tailored to match the outfit worn by the desire demon. 

And there, in the front row of the chantry, are his parents. They’re holding hands, smiling, his mother even looks on the verge of tears. Dorian can’t remember the last time he saw his parents this happy with him. It is as if they are watching him discover his magic all over again. 

“Here is what you truly desire,” the demon explicates, very likely reading Dorian’s thoughts. “I can see it now. You could slake your carnal thirst if you chose to do so; a face like yours has no trouble finding a willing hand. But that’s not what tempts you. You desire this: open declarations of love, freedom, a safe place to lay your head that you can trust to be there in the morning.”

The demon’s words leave Dorian speechless. He knows the truth behind the demon’s words, but hearing these truths outside his own head hurts, hurts even more than when Dorian is alone at night with nothing but cold sheets and his own hand; he had had no one since Claudius. 

“You think you will ever be able to have this without me?” the demon asks when Dorian does not say anything. “You desire a love you can never have, that no man will ever give you, and you will be forever tempted by the lure of it, mage. Give in to me. Allow me to end your suffering.” 

The demon offers out a tanned hand, and Dorian stares at it. The skin looks smooth, the nails clean and perfectly manicured--the sort of hand Dorian has always imagined would fit perfectly in the perpetually empty spaces between his fingers. It is his, and all he has to do is reach out and take it. 

When Dorian lifts his hand, he realizes that it is shaking. His whole body is shaking, and he has bitten his lip so hard that he can taste the faint tang of blood on the tip of his tongue. He could die with everything he has ever wanted. It would be, as the demon pointed out, the only way he could have it. Dorian can feel the weight of the revelation pressing down on his shoulders, and it makes his knees crumple. But the pressure of the choice, the one Dorian has been so sure of up until this point, weighs on him as well. The temptation is a revelation, a succinct summary of the desires that Dorian himself could before only see in bits and pieces. 

“You see the truth in my words, mage. The Fade holds the answers to many secrets, even your own. Only here, with me, can you ever be happy the way you want to be. You desire happiness. You desire death. You know that I can give you both.”

“But it’s not real,” Dorian mumbles, mostly to himself. The death would be real, certainly, but the love? To only experience that for a moment would be worse than death, Dorian realizes. He desires something the demon could never give him, and it’s this thought that fills his mind, buzzing like bees. Even this demon with all of its powers could not grant Dorian his deepest desire. 

So Dorian juts his chin up, defiant. “Sorry to disappoint,” Dorian says, voice so jovial that it surprises even himself, “but I won’t be killed in front of my parents. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

He destroys the wedding scene with perhaps more fireballs than strictly necessary, and when he wakes up the Templar has a dagger unsheathed and pointed at his throat. 

“Messere Pavus,” the Templar stutters, before putting the blade back. The man looks ready to sprint out of the room, and Dorian doesn’t blame him; the punishment for a Soporati killing an Altus is death, no trial. 

Dorian makes a dismissive hand gesture. “Just being fashionably late,” he says, coughing out half of his words. He doesn’t tell them what he has seen, what he almost did. Instead, Dorian stands, stretches himself out, adjusts his robes and asks, “Now, I think I deserve a drink, don’t you?


	4. A Birthday Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian attempts to celebrate passing his Harrowing.

The party the following evening, to celebrate Dorian passing his Harrowing, is the most lavish party of the season--his parents made sure of it, even if their Satinalia party had only been weeks earlier. 

The weather is unseasonably cold, even for Umbralis, and so the party spreads out throughout the many great rooms of the Pavus estate: dancing in the ballroom, dinner and drinks in the great hall, and pockets of guests tucked into the libraries, conservatories, and every other room opened to the public. After all, every Altus who is anyone  _ needs  _ to be seen at Pavus’ party. 

The guests are as decorated as the rooms they occupy, ornate robes blending in with intricate tapestries and skillfully-woven wreaths of pine and holly. The smells of evergreen branches mixes with the scent of perfume and the wafting odors of the h'orderves, and the sounds of conversations moved with the melodies of the hired musicians. And in between it all moved dozens of slaves, each one with the sole purpose of refilling the guests’ golden wine goblets. As only a picture it was overwhelming, but as an  _ act _ , a place to play out the intricacies of Imperium politics and society, it was a deadly battlefield. 

Dorian’s parents make his role in his own party exceedingly clear at the start of the night, as his mother had pressed a glass of brandy into his hand while his father listed off every eligible and respectable young Altus woman who will be at the party. 

“One of the two young ladies from House Merula would be preferable,” his mother had added, smoothing out the shoulder of Dorian’s robes. “Their complexion would go well with yours. Don’t you agree, Halward?”

“Don’t you mean their magic?” Dorian had shot back, before tipping back his brandy and finishing it off. 

Now, however, he is three more cups in with hardly any dinner in his stomach--it makes dealing with the spectacle in his home slightly bearable, at the least. He spends every other sip of his Antivan wine considering telling his parents what happened in the Fade, how much of a sham this all is, exactly what he will and will never do with his life. But every time he thinks he will find the nerve at the bottom of his goblet, it’s refilled again by a passing slave, and he has to begin all over again. 

On his fourth cup, as he hides out in a corner of the ballroom, a hand touches the small of his back. “You must be Dorian Pavus,” a voice purrs, soft as fennec fur.

“That depends,” Dorian replies, smiling, “on whether or not my mother sent you over here.”

By the look of this woman, his mother most likely did. She had on tight, dark green robes with intricate patterns cut out of them, revealing swirls of golden skin. Her dair hair was twisted into a set of braids designed to resemble a grand tree sprouting out of her head, complete with jeweled charms, small and red and hung like miniature apples. And then of course there was the matter of her face, the slight nose and wide eyes, the full lips and confident smirk. 

“You want my motives before you even know my name?” the woman chides, clicking her tongue. “Darling, you’ve been in your studies too long. That is no way to behave in polite society.”

Dorian bows to the woman, adding more flourishes than is strictly necessary, but it has the desired effect of attracting the attention of the entire room. “My lady,” Dorian says as he rises. He gestures for her hand and she gives it to him; it’s small and surprisingly cold when he presses it to his lips. “I wonder if, after that rude remark, you would still do me the honor of your name as well as your apologizes?”

The woman slips for a moment, Dorian can see it on her face, and gives a genuine smile before schooling her features into what Dorian knows must be a practiced smirk. “Well aren’t you sweet,” she drawls, contemplating the spot on her hand that Dorian kissed. “You may have my apologizes,” she announces, only to lean in closer and whisper loudly, so that the rest of the room may still hear, “and you may have my name if you ask me to dance.”

So Dorian does. He knows the dance well, knows how to hold his partner and how to avoid her feet with his own. He learns that her name is Portia Merula, and that up close she smells faintly of lavender. She feels weightless in Dorian’s arms, even with the elaborate hairdo, and part of him wonders if she is even there at all. But still he holds her, spins her, has a comeback for every quip she throws at him. 

It would have been pleasant, really, if her hand hadn’t wandered down past the small of Dorian’s back by the end of the dance. 

He lets go of Portia when the music stops and bows to her. She curtsies back, offers her hand to him and informs Dorian that, “You may now have the honor of accompanying me to the balcony for some air.”

The balcony lines the edge of the ballroom. Littered with chaise lounges with fur blankets and specially-charmed heated lamps, it’s cozy despite the temperature. Or at least it is, until Dorian notices the guests noticing  _ him _ , and then subsequently leaving the balcony until he’s all alone with Portia. 

He wonders which of his parents bribed the guests to do so. Maybe both, he ponders, as he watches Portia go through a ruse of catching her breath, sighing, and then walks over to the edge of the balcony to tilt her head and look up at the night sky. 

“Would you like to know the names of the stars?” Dorian asks. “This time of year, you can get a fantastic view of--”

“I’ve never much cared for stars.”

She says it with her back still to him, and so he does not have to school his features, but can let them fall into a frown. “Alright,” he replies, voice still light. “Then what would the lady care to talk about?”

At this, Portia turns to look at Dorian. Her skin seems to glow in the lamplight, and the faint breeze rocks the jeweled apples in her hair back and forth. “I had hoped to be done with talking entirely,” Portia tells Dorian, giving him a look that he assumes Portia must think is appealing. “Certainly that lovely face of yours is good for more than charming conversation?”

Dorian tugs at the sleeve of his robes, can’t help the tell. “My lady,” he begins, if only to stall until he can think of something else. “I’m afraid all they taught me in the Qarinus Circle was magic and charming conversation. If you do not desire either, then I’m afraid you have no use for me.” 

He hopes that this will be the end of it, that Portia will spread the rumor that Dorian Pavus is a blushing virgin, too timid to take was was practically being given to him. He thinks back to his Harrowing, still so fresh in his mind that he can smell the sweat of the demon, and knows that he could live with that rumor.

“ _ Vishante kaffas _ ,” Portia curses, before striding up to Dorian, grabbing the front of his robes, and pulling him down to that she can press her lips against his, as if his refusal was only a minor inconvenience. 

And Dorian, who has only kissed one other person before in his eighteen years of existence, freezes. He can feel the place where Portia’s lips are half on his, the tension from where his robes hold down his shoulders, and he can even feel the air from his nose on his skin. It’s surprisingly similar to kissing Claudius, Dorian realizes, and the thought relaxes him enough to attempt kissing back. It’s an inelegant attempt. Portia tastes like tart berries, and the way she manages to giggle and simper and kiss at the same time have Dorian pushing her away after a moment.

“Apologies,” Dorian blurts out as fast as he can. “It’s the wine, you see,” he sputters, lying as fast as he can. “It has my head spinning.” He can see Portia frowning, and caresses the side of her face gently with his thumb. “I just need some air. But why don’t you go back to the party? It would be a shame indeed to deny your company to the rest of my guests.”

 

Portia leaves. It is in a huff, but she leaves all the same, and Dorian is grateful for it. 

 

Alone on the balcony, Dorian collapses into the closest chaise and wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand. “ _ Vishante kaffas _ indeed.” 


	5. The After Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finally gets to celebrate passing his Harrowing, with the help of another mage. If you're looking for the smut, you've found it.

When Dorian finally pries himself away from the chaise, it takes one goblet of wine to wash the taste of Portia from his mouth and another to forget the way she grabbed his robes. That done, Dorian decides to spend the rest of the evening seeing just how many more goblets it will take to get the memory of Portia entirely.

He leaves the ballroom, deeming it unsafe, and instead sneaks away to the drawing room by the stairs. It’s dimly lit, has a decanter of brandy, and is blessedly empty of anyone else except Dorian himself. 

Or at least it is, until Dorian, humming to himself and pouring out some brandy into his wine goblet, hears, “I hope you’re not planning on drinking all that yourself, young man.”

“I had planned on it, yes,” Dorian replies, without even checking to see whom he is addressing. To emphasize his point, he picks up the entire decanter, turns around and looks at the man, and announces, “It is my birthday, after all,” before taking a swig right from the crystal decanter.

As he does so, Dorian finally gets a look at the other man. He’s older, Dorian knows instantly, from both the lines around his eyes and the way his head is shaved, a bold statement against the fashion of the time.  _ Almost as bold as the lines of his jaw, or the width of his shoulders _ , Dorian thinks, and he instantly must know, “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?” 

The older man smiles, but shakes his head at the same time. “Dorian Pavus. Your father had been hoping to introduce us properly, I’m told, but you’ve been so hard to find for most of the night that I took it upon myself to make the introduction.” It’s compliment enough that this man was so intent on meeting him, but when the man adds, “My name is Magister Gereon Alexius,” Dorian’s knees feel weak. 

“A magister so intent on meeting a mage who has barely passed his Harrowing,” Dorian muses out loud, taking another drink from the decanter. It feels decadent, even more so because he’s doing it in front of a  _ magister _ .  _ A  _ gorgeous  _ magister at that _ , Dorian’s intoxicated mind chimes in,  _ a very gorgeous magister indeed _ . “I must be in terrible trouble if my father sent you after me.”

Magister Alexius doesn’t reply right away, but instead he sits on one of the plush armchairs and motions for Dorian to do the same. Dorian sits, tucks the decanter in between his feet so that it does not spill, and leans forward in his chair.

“Quite the opposite,” Alexius replies, and his tone is amiable. “In fact, I wanted to see what your plans were, now that you’ve passed your Harrowing. You’re no longer an apprentice mage now, of course, and so you have options.”

At the word  _ options _ , Dorian remembers Portia, and remembers that she has a sister, and reaches down for the decanter. “Ah yes, options,” Dorian repeats. “I believe my parents gave me two lovely sisters to choose between as my options.”

Alexius chuckles, but there’s no malice behind it, hardly any humor either. Dorian watches as Alexius adjusts in his seat. “I saw you earlier, on the balcony, you know. Your parents chose well. Portia of house Merula is a most agreeable young woman.”

Dorian frowns, can’t help it, and says without thinking, “But she kissed me, and she doesn’t like the stars.” The two ideas feel more connected in Dorian’s mind; once he releases them out of his mouth, the words seem to dart like finches, small and separate. 

“I saw that, too,” Alexius says with a nod. “What was it?” he asks. “Bad breath?” Alexius looks pointedly down at Dorian’s lap, and then back up at his face with a playful smirk. “Too much brandy?”

Dorian drops his face into one of mock horror, clutches a hand to his chest and gasps. “Are you accusing  _ me _ , Altus mage and scion of House Pavus, of being unable to  _ perform _ ? I am appalled and offended that you would even dare suggest such a thing, Magister--”

“Alexius,” the older man supplies, when Dorian fumbles on remembering his name. “But please, just Alexius will do. And I did not mean to offend, Dorian, merely to speculate as to why a young man such as yourself would balk from the company of a woman like Portia Merula.”

“If you want her so much,” Dorian retorts, “you should go find  _ her _ .” He picks up the decanter, contemplates it for a moment, and then takes another swig to try to forget how petulant he just sounded. 

Alexius reaches over and lifts the decanter from Dorian’s grasp. Thier fingers touch, and Dorian can’t help but notice how surprisingly rough Alexius’ hands are, for a magister. “You have had quite enough brandy,” Alexius informs Dorian, with such an authority in his voice that Dorian cannot muster an argument against it. “And I told you, I came here to meet you, Pavus.”

The words are a small comfort, a light blanket of warmth--though Dorian isn’t sure if that is Alexius’ words or the brandy. Anything seems possible in the sublime candlelight of the drawing room, as if even the Veil itself is stretched thin here. And maybe Alexius is a demon, Dorian speculates, even if he doesn’t have horns. 

“Care to share your thoughts?”

Dorian purses his lips together and hums. “Only wondering if you were a demon.”

Alexius takes a drink from the brandy at that, wrinkling his nose, Dorian assumes, at the fact that he too must drink out of the decanter like a barbarian. But after he has taken his drink, he asks, “Did your demons look like me, in the Fade?”

It’s too much of a question, and so Dorian closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He feels like he’s moving, even though he knows he’s sitting still. The truthful answer is  _ no _ , but after eighteen years in the Imperium, Dorian knows that the truth is never the answer someone is looking for. So he must lie, but how? A story of a pride demon, perhaps? Dorian’s not sure about his ability to spin a yarn in this state. 

In the silence, Alexius has leaned closer too, and begun examining Dorian. “Desire demons are tricky beasts,” Alexius says lowly. “They can trick us into thinking we want things that we would never normally want.”

It’s an out. This magister is giving Dorian an out, one that he should take. Instead, Dorian licks his lips and tastes the remnants of brandy. It may be the light, or the drink, or the fact that Dorian never planned to live to this moment, or some sort of grotesque amalgam of the three. He chose to live when he was in the Fade, to slay his demon and take his place as a fully-fledged mage, and so far all it had gotten him was a kiss from a woman and a stomach of alcohol. Wasn’t he, his drunken mind reminded him, not an Altus mage? And weren’t Altus mages supposed to get what they wanted?

“Oh no,” Dorian finally replies, voice dim like the flickering candles. “It knew what I wanted. Told me about what I wanted in sordid detail, too, I might add.” He looks up at Alexius through his lashes, purses his lips again and widens his eyes. “It’s a shame that I never got it. But, alas.”

Alexius, at first, does not seem moved. “Ah, but the Fade is not really real, not in the way that you or I are real. I have done extensive research on the Fade, as well as the Veil Anything gained there is hollow indeed. No, it is much better,” Alexius adds, slowly lifting a hand, “to focus on more worldly pursuits.” 

The hand comes to rest on Dorian’s knee, and he’s not sure whether to jump for joy or piss his pants. Neither is acceptable, obviously, but he feels an intrinsic need to do both, perhaps at the same time. Alexius is nothing like Portia. Alexius is neither small nor simpering, does not try to lure Dorian into a trap. Instead he hunts, reaching out and claiming Dorian as if he has any right to do so, and Dorian’s skin vibrates at the thought of the possibilities, as unlimited as the stars themselves. 

“I’m afraid,” Dorian begins, “that as barely more than an apprentice, I haven’t the faintest idea where to begin.” He looks down at the hand on his knee, and then back up at Alexius, slowly, intentionally, the same way Alexius looked at him earlier. He’s over exaggerating the limits of his knowledge, of course, but there’s no reason that Alexius has to know that. Better that this man think Dorian a blushing virgin, than one who greedily read every bit of purple prose he could get his hands on. Dorian may be lacking in practical knowledge, but he was rather proud of his comprehension of the theoretical. 

“I believe that could be arranged. Did you have something in mind?” Alexius asks, increasing the pressure of his hand on Dorian’s thigh so that Dorian has no choice but to spread his legs wider, to sink down farther in the chair as he chases after the touch. 

It’s a dangerous game that they’re playing, even already. Something like this is normally done with a servant, or someone else whose rank doesn’t matter. He knows for a fact that his mother keeps a rather lovely woman on call for whenever the mood strikes her; it isn’t much of a secret. But this is something entirely different.

Had Dorian been sober, he could have seen the danger of revealing his hand so early, so haphazardly, to a man he has just met. He could have considered the pros and cons, weighed the danger against the reward, and hoarded away the fact that  _ Alexius touched him first  _ as a safeguard against too many rumors spreading. Tevinter makes nothing easy. 

But Dorian feels warm and fuzzy from the wine and the brandy, his focus locked on the hand on his leg. He stares at it for a moment, as if he can will it with just his mind to move closer to the bulge in his robes, but Alexius remains unmoved.  

“Pavus?”

Dorian rolls his neck around, wincing as he hears the joints pop. “Don’t call me that,” he says finally. At his request the hand is gone, and it’s so much the opposite of what Dorian wants that he goes with his body’s first idea: ungracefully he rises from the chair, barely standing long enough to move to kneel between Alexius’ spread knees. 

The movements made his head spin, and Dorian takes a moment to close his eyes, center himself. He reaches out to hold on to one of Alexius’ ankles  at the same time he feels a broad hand on the side of his face. 

“What should I call you then?” Alexius asks, voice low. 

“Dorian, please,” he replies, looking up at Alexius from this new angle, drinking in the sight of the powerful man above him as if it is the sweetest wine he has ever tasted. 

Alexius strokes the side of his face, and his fingers brush against Dorian’s hair. “Dorian,” he repeats, concern in his voice, “you do know that the door is unlocked?”

Dorian runs his hands up Alexius’ legs, then his thighs, and feels a spark of pride when he hears the way Alexius’ breathing hitches. It’s so easy to forget about the door, about the rest of the party, with his body full of wine and the room warm from the candles. Even the carpet under his knees is plush, and when Alexius’ hand goes to tug on one of Dorian’s braids, Dorian can’t remember a time he felt happier, or more turned-on.

He lets his eyes slip closed. “Don’t care,” is his immediate response. Dorian is quick to add, opening his eyes and looking back up at Alexius, “It’s my party, is it not? And you did promise me a lesson.”

“I said that a lesson may be  _ arranged _ ,” Alexius grouses, but there’s no heat behind the complaint. Instead Alexius shifts forward on the chair, sitting on its edge and moving himself closer to Dorian. He drops his hand down to run a thumb along Dorian’s lips, and sucks in breath through his nose when Dorian opens his mouth and takes the thumb into his mouth. Alexius’ thumb tastes like salt and sweat and faintly of wine, though Dorian’s not sure if that’s himself or Alexius. 

“But it seems as though patience is not one of your virtues, Dorian.” Alexius takes his thumb from Dorian’s mouth. “If you were my student, that would be the first thing we would work on.” 

Mouth still open, Dorian drops his head down to press kisses on the inside of Alexius’ clothed thigh. “Patience,” he replies between kisses as he moves farther up the older man’s leg, “is a virtue reserved only for those who do not catch on quickly.” He’s got his fingers on Alexius’ hips now, and his face just a scant distance from the man’s crotch. Dorian can see the way his erection strains against his breeches, too, and he’s desperate to get a look at it, to get his mouth on it, anything. 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Alexius reaches down to undo the fastening on his breeches. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if he is afraid that one wrong move will spook Dorian into running. “I am interested to see,” he says, his voice a midnight black whisper, “if that mouth of yours is just as clever when it is full.” Alexius has to shift again to adjust his smalls, but then he has his cock out, hard and in his hand. He brings his other hand back to Dorian’s head, guiding the younger mage’s mouth closer to his cock. 

Dorian moves willingly, pulled in the way a magnet attracts metals. “You’ll need to tell me what to do,” he reminds Alexius, before leaning down and taking his first few tentative licks of the man’s cock. The taste is bitter and salty and unpleasant, but it’s negligible compared to the way Alexius sucks in a breath and tightens his grip on Dorian’s hair. None of Dorian’s very elaborate daydreams could have prepared him for  _ that _ . 

But Alexius says nothing, seemingly content to let Dorian kiss his length, softly licking and kissing it whenever he felt like it, before taking the tip into his mouth and giving that a soft, experimental suck. “Should have known you would be a tease,” Alexius hisses, and Dorian is about to take his mouth away and remind Alexius that he is making this up as he goes along when Alexius orders him to, “Keep your mouth open, Dorian, and relax.”

There’s nothing Dorian can do except what he is told, and so he does, relaxing his jaw as Alexius uses the hand on the back of his head to push Dorian’s mouth down further on his cock, more and more until Dorian gags at it, and only then does Alexius relent. He lets Dorian slide his mouth back up, catch his breath, and then repeats the process again. 

“Yes,” Alexius hisses, and Dorian moans at the praise, which earns a sharp laugh from Alexius. “Do you like that?” he asks, as he pushed Dorian’s mouth back down on his cock. “Do you want me to tell you how good you look like this, under my control, sucking me off?”

Dorian tightens his grip on Alexius’ thighs, whimpers, and hopes it all comes across as an emphatic  _ yes _ . He’s harder than he can ever remember being before--his skin feels too tight, as if it would catch fire at any moment. He wants to touch himself, but he doesn’t want to move away from any part of Alexius, and so he focuses on hollowing his cheeks as he pulls his head back this time, only to be gagged by Alexius bucking up into his mouth. 

“Such a clever mouth,” Alexius says, and so Dorian does it again until the grip in his hair tightens and his mouth is pulled away from Alexius’ cock. “Here’s your lesson. I am going to fuck your mouth, hold you down, and you are going to learn how to take it.” His voice is lower now, and when Dorian finally opens his eyes to look up to Alexius, the expression on his face is much the same--he looks angry, almost in pain, like the amount of control he is exerting to  _ not  _ be fucking Dorian right now is killing him. 

Dorian can already feel the strain in his jaw. But it’s a pain that’s fuzzy and far away, buried under drink and lust and whatever the dark and twisted need in Dorian’s gut is to hear any other kind words, even if they come with a hand yanking his hair. “Well come on, then,” Dorian says finally, dropping his hands down to hold on to Alexius’ calves. He can’t help but snuff a laugh at the hoarseness of his voice before adding, “Fuck me.”

He only gets a moment to bask in the fact that his voice hardly shook at all when he said that, before Alexius makes good on his promise of a lesson. All Dorian can do is loosen his jaw, hold on to the man’s thighs, and  _ take it  _ as Alexius relentlessly fucks his mouth. The lewd sounds of skin against saliva-soaked skin are deafening in the small, quiet room, and the sound of Alexius’ breathing is a thunderstorm. 

The thrusts soon before more erratic. Dorian can not only hear but  _ feel _ Alexius coming apart above him, and it makes Dorian moan through his nose. He feels dizzy from it all, the feel of it, the way he can’t get enough air, the way his  s water, the way he feels like he might be sick, and especially the way Alexius continues to whisper filthy things down to Dorian about the quality of his mouth and how good he looks on his knees just taking it, and Dorian can’t agree more. 

Suddenly the grip in his hair tightens past being enjoyable. Dorian tries to whine, tries to pull away, only to realize that Alexius is coming down his throat without warning. Dorian tries to make a noise but it comes out choked; it’s so far in the back of his mouth that he can barely taste, but it’s distressing enough that for a moment Dorian forgets how to breath. When Alexius does release him, Dorian is gasping for air, saliva dripping past his bottom lip. 

It’s Alexius who laughs now. He tucks his softening cock back into his robes before leaning down to wipe the mess away from Dorian’s lips with the side of his thumb. “A clever mouth indeed,” he praises, and Dorian manages to maneuver those sore lips of his into something of a smile. “Now, what should I do to reward such a clever mouth?”

Every part of Dorian’s body feels heavy, and his knees feel stuck to the carpet. His mind feel far away and foggy, like he can’t get a hold of it, and his chest feels full to bursting with more emotions than Dorian knew he could experience at the same time. Or maybe, he wonders, maybe this is a dream, the man is a demon, maybe--

“Dorian.”

Alexius’ words hit him like force magic, solid and unmoving. Dorian looks up. He opens his mouth to explain, to apologize, to babble, something, but Alexius doesn’t let him. 

“You have been very good, Dorian, and so here is what you are going to do now. You are going to come up here, yes,” Alexius pauses, huffs a breath in through his mouth, as Dorian urges his stiff limbs to cooperate. He manages to get himself into Alexius’ lap, half kneeling and half sitting and it’s enough for Alexius to reach out and grab Dorian’s  ass. 

“Just like that,” Alexius praises, as Dorian makes a noise at the touch and goes to bury his face in the crook of Alexius’ shoulder. He knows better than to kiss the man, than to take anything he isn't being given, and so when he feels Alexius’ hand move to the front of his robes, he just about screams from it. 

Alexius strokes Dorian off like that, barely getting him out his robes before Dorian comes all over them both, moaning curses and the word  _ sorry  _ as if it was Alexius’ name. It’s hot and bright and over too fast but Dorian wants it, wanted it, must have with the way he won’t let go of Alexius. 

They breath together like that for a moment, and then another, holding each other with the smell of sweat and sex between them, as if either if them had the right, as if the door wasn’t unlocked, and Dorian’s head spins at the thought that  _ this  _ might be more enjoyable to sex. 

It’s Alexius who breaks the silence. 

“They’re going to be looking for you,” he says, and Dorian knows that’s his cue to pull away. He does, allows Alexius to clean them both up, and even lets Alexius readjust his hair. “I hope to see you around,  _ Dorian _ ,” he adds, saying Dorian’s name like it’s the name of a dirty poem and leaving before Dorian has the chance to say anything more. 


End file.
